


the things we leave behind

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [105]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, also:, mundane objects of emotional significance, yes I mean it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-14 00:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21006533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: “I wanna go for a walk,” Newt complains, one day; hands stuck, not in a bit of kaiju, but on the single-use chopsticks that are refusing to break apart like they’re supposed to.Hermann, across from him—they may be rivals, but they also have this…thing, that means they sit together in the mess—raises his head from where it’s buried in a book; pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose—an action that, on anyone else, Newt would call cute—and scowls. “Then what’s stopping you from doing so and leaving me inpeace?” he growls; but without terribly much bite.





	the things we leave behind

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "would you write hermann holding newt while newt cries"

“Geiszler.”

It’s the greeting that throws him; for a moment, he teeters; hesitant; working his jaw; the man across from him, familiar—_too_ familiar, he knows, to be calling him _Geiszler._

Oh. Right.

He throws a wide grin on to hide the pain of it. 

“Herms!” he exclaims; a vengeful little bit of him delighting in the way the other sets his jaw; teeth grit, eyes narrowing; “how’ve you been, man?”

“_Just_ fine,” Hermann replies; clipped. “Doing work that will _actually_ help the human race, unlike _certain_ persons.”

Newt widens his grin until it hurts; refuses to reply to the pointed jab; it’s been too long since they’ve seen each other; this shouldn’t affect him, but it does; he’s better at hiding it, now, though, so that’s…something. “I hear you’re in from Vladivostok,” he says, instead. 

As if remembering it, the physicist gives a little shudder. “_Terrible_ place,” he sniffs. “Too _bloody_ cold.”

_Ah,_ Newt thinks, gaze drifting down. It must’ve been awful, what with his leg, and Newt feels a pang at that; sympathy.

He brushes it away quickly. “Well,” he says, “if you need a _tour—_”

“I do _not,_” Hermann snaps; sharply.

Newt raises his hands. “Okay, okay! No need to bite my head off!”

“It’s hardly unwarranted when you won’t stop wiggling your eyebrows like—” he makes a little motion of disgust, “_—that._”

Newt gives a huff. “Spoilsport,” he mutters. “Fine, get lost on your way to debrief with Pentecost, for all I care.”

“I _shan’t,_ thank you,” Hermann shoots back.

* * *

“I wanna go for a walk,” Newt complains, one day; hands stuck, not in a bit of kaiju, but on the single-use chopsticks that are refusing to break apart like they’re supposed to.

Hermann, across from him—they may be rivals, but they also have this…thing, that means they sit together in the mess—raises his head from where it’s buried in a book; pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose—an action that, on anyone else, Newt would call _cute_—and scowls. “Then what’s stopping you from doing so and leaving me in _peace?_” he growls; but without terribly much bite.

Newt sighs dramatically; sweeps his arms out. “It’s _monsoon season,_” he laments, “and _I_ haven’t got _anything_ waterproof.”

“You…haven’t an umbrella,” Hermann says—states, flatly.

“Well, no,” Newt admits, “but look, in my _defence—_”

“You,” Hermann says, “are an _idiot_.” And then he returns to his book.

“Well thank you, Mr. Age of Enlightenment,” Newt says, sarcastically, and stabs at the food. “_Real_ helpful—they should nominate you for an award for that, _really._”

Hermann ignores him.

Still, a few days later, when he gets back to his quarters, there’s a single, big, sturdy black umbrella laying on his bed.

“_Creepy,_” he says, to thin air, “also, _terrible taste._ It doesn’t even have dinosaurs on it!” 

He uses it, though, at least for the week; afterwards, it’s relegated to the back of his closet, forgotten, though he does take the hint and get a raincoat.

* * *

“I’d like to look through the—the—” his voice trembles; gaze cast low; swallows, but Hermann seems to understand (he always does).

He nods. “Of course,” he says, hands clasped together on the head of his cane, “it’s understandable that you’d want…_closure._ But, Newton,” he hesitates; then, softly, “I just want you to remember, when we’re there…that wasn’t you.”

Newt laughs, hollowly. “Might as well have been,” he returns, carefully ignoring the _we_ that Hermann uses; to intimate for _this._

Hermann sets his jaw; doesn’t argue, though; they’ve rehashed this enough to know what the other’s going to say; step-for-step, like some sort of fucked up dance, except the music happens to be the looming knowledge that Newt spent years and years as a tool for a race of genocidal aliens.

“When?” Hermann asks, instead.

He shrugs. “Now?” he asks, trying to sound decisive, but his voice rises at the end, betraying uncertainty. 

“…now,” Hermann repeats; sighs, eyes flicking closed for a moment, before he locks his gaze with Newt’s. “Alright,” he says.

So; they do.

The penthouse is pretentious and avant-garde, and really, _really_ fucking up the inside of Newt’s head right now, but he doesn’t say anything; they make their way through the kitchen and living-room, and then up—

Ah; fuck; right.

_This._

He stands, frozen in place, in the doorway to the bedroom; staring at the empty area by the armchair; Hermann, he thinks, is saying something, worried, but he can’t hear him; ears buzzing, head full of static.

A hand on his shoulder; Newt crumples to the floor without resistance; doesn’t even feel the pain as his knees hit the ground.

“Newton!”

“‘s fine,” Newt tries to reassure, “I’m—fine, I’m fine, just. _Remembering._” He shudders.

Hermann doesn’t say anything; just stands, lips pursed, tight.

Out of the corner of his eye, Newt spots the closet. “Hey, _clothes,_” he says, trying to distract; hauls himself to his feet. “Let’s see what evil-me wore…” he pulls the doors open, pushes clothes aside without really seeing them—

And freezes.

There, at the back of the closet; a long, black, shape.

Newt reaches for it, hands shaking, and pulls it out.

It’s—

“That’s the umbrella I gave you,” Hermann says; speaking for the first time in a bit; moves towards him. “It _is,_ isn’t it, Newton?”

“I—” Newt swallows; sits down, eyes tearing up, and holds the umbrella tightly; voice thick, says, “it—it is, yeah.”

And then, suddenly, he’s crying; head bowed, tears streaming down his cheeks; and Hermann’s at his side; then, embracing him. “Oh, _Newton…_”

“I’m _fine,_” Newt protests, but his voice trembles. He stops trying to speak.

Finally, the tears stop, but Hermann doesn’t pull away.

“I’m…surprised,” Newt says, finally; almost to himself. “And…kind of happy. Which is stupid, I know, but…they threw everything else out, even…even your letters.”

Admitting it is hard; the words stick in his throat, but once they’re out, Hermann hugs him tighter. “Newton,” he says, and then; “let’s get out of here, darling.”

Newt gives a shaky laugh; grips the umbrella tight. “Okay,” he says.

It’s started to drizzle when they get outside, but the umbrella is big enough for two, so Newt holds it in one hand and holds Hermann’s hand in the other, and they stay dry.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [harrowwharks](https://harrowwharks.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
